‘I love these,’ he says. ‘White, so fucking innocent, and yet they’re so not.’
He rocks against me, the tip of his cock nudging at my opening. He does it again, teasing inside, his hiss of breath as erotic as the movement itself. And then he thrusts so hard, so deep, that he has to use both hands on my hips to stop me from collapsing over his bike.
My nipples brush the cold metal, the headlamp presses against my clit and his cock nudges my G spot. Such a multitude of sensation all at once that my head spins on it, my body hanging on the precipice of release.
His fingers bite into my hips, his tension vibrating through their lengths. His thrusts turn short and jagged and he growls low in his throat. He’s so close, but so am I. Every thrust of his body, treats my nipples, my clit, my G spot to a delicious jolt of friction.
My legs tense up and I stop breathing. I give myself over to the mind-obliterating power of it and then I hear him cry out, his release bringing my own.
Together we rock, the movement long, deep. His arms wrap around my middle, pulling me against him, holding me tight. The warmth of his body seeps through his shirt, heating my back as he trails a hand over my front, over the goosebumps now appearing.
‘Are you cold?’ he says against my ear.
I shake my head. I can’t even speak. I would have let him do anything, have anything, in the heat of what just went down. It should scare me. But I’m too content for fear.
I hook my hands behind his head once more, feel his buzz cut tickling my palms. ‘I’ll take that cocktail now.’
He presses a kiss into my neck. ‘I’ll take that talk too.’
A man who truly wants to talk—to me, about me...the real me...
The unfamiliar prospect should unsettle me, but with his arm around me, his hand worshipping my front, his back heating me through, I’m anything but unsettled.
CHAPTER SIX
I’M SURPRISED I can hold my hands steady as I craft her the perfect espresso martini. It’s a damn good job I could do it in my sleep. My hours as a mixologist in London’s high-end bars have taught me well. It was fun, even if the reason I was there wasn’t.
‘You really can mix a drink,’ she says as she leans on the industrial chunk of wood and aluminium that forms the centre island of my kitchen.
She looks too cute, her white shirt buttoned just enough to be decent but not so much that I can’t drink in her cleavage every time I look up. Her hair is delightfully ruffled from our antics, her eyes intense as she watches me work; her lips are worked clean of lipstick and they sport a dusky pink tone that reminds me of the inside of a strawberry. And just as tasty.
My cock twitches inside my jeans, gearing up anew, a reminder of just how ‘cute’ I find her.
I want to say that it’s my need to protect her making these feelings more intense—the same kind of protective instinct that had me seeking justice for my family all those years ago. But I’m not convinced.
After all these years I’ve spent avoiding her type, I’m now powerless to deny I want her in every which way I can have her. I want Coco.
Which is absolutely fine, I tell myself. You can have her and then walk away.
She’s in this for the sex, and I’m in it to help her, enjoying what she’s so willing to offer at the same time.
So why does it feel wrong?
Because you’re lying to her. You are becoming the kind of person you despise. The kind you seek to bring down.
I shake the drink. Hard. Fast. I don’t want to think about it any more. I just want to be—
‘And there I was thinking you were making it up—some corny chat-up line to get me to come home with you.’
Eyes alive with teasing, she takes up a handful of nuts from the bowl I put out earlier and pops one into her mouth.
I grip the shaker tighter. ‘I don’t make things up.’
Unless I’m on the job, which I am now...kind of...
I feel the brutal force of my confession wash over me, my skin prickling even though it’s warm in here.
You’ve not lied to her, my conscience tries to reason. You’ve merely omitted to tell her everything. That’s different.